I can take it
by ohcomely23
Summary: Peter felt sick. But if Neal was telling them not to come in… well, he had to trust there was a reason for it. But that didn't mean he had to like it. And honestly, if things continued at this rate… well, screw it, he was going in. Peter is forced to listen as Neal takes a beating, and Neal struggles to stay strong, get the information, save lives. Told from Peter's POV.
1. Chapter 1

_"I can take it."_

Peter's stomach churned and clenched as he heard the words muttered through gritted teeth. Neal's voice was tight, winded, yet determined. He was talking to Peter, to the van, telling them not to come in, that somehow, this was going to work.

_"That right? Let's hear some more of that silver tongue. Indulge us."_

Peter heard the sharp intake of air, interrupted by a painful slew of wheezing coughs. He thought he heard another voice in the background, though before he could decipher it, a muted whimper filled his ear.

Peter, frustrated and anxious, pushed himself out of his chair and ran his fingers through his hair. Breathe in, breathe out, breathe in, breathe out.

"Boss, should we-" Diana's brown eyes betrayed little of her worry. She motioned towards the sound system and towards the building.

They could hear Neal over the comm system getting the _shit_ beat out of him. About ten minutes into the operation, Neal had been made. _"YOU!" _Williamson had sputtered. Everyone in the van had heard what sounded like a tazer, followed by a sharp intake of breath, and lastly, a thud. They'd lost signal shortly after that; those silent minutes had been the most agonizing fifteen minutes that the special agent could recall. Just as they'd been about to storm into the building, communication had gone back up.

Peter felt sick. But if Neal was telling them not to come in… well, he had to trust there was a reason for it. But that didn't mean he had to like it. And honestly, if things continued at this rate… well, screw it, he was going in and tearing those bastards off of Neal himself.

The van was silent, the tension palpable. The discerning sound of flesh hitting flesh bounced off the walls. Neal, for the most part, was silent. Peter chalked this up to Neal trying to spare everyone in the van. _At least it means that Neal is still in control_, Peter thought bitterly.

_"Hmmmph- a-ahhh," _Neal grunted, panted, wheezed. A snap was heard, another choked gasp, and a shaky exhalation. Peter swore he heard someone laughing.

"_Pick him up. Yeah, like that. Keep him up, hold him up." _Slap_.  
"You don't look so good." _Crunch. Knuckles hitting flesh._  
"Anyone ever….teach you not to punch with your knuckles…." _Neal whispered/asked_._ Even with his voice clear in the van, Peter had never heard the man sound so depleted, his voice so winded, so rough.

Peter was pacing now. Diana was still as a statue, her arms crossed, poised by the door. She and Jones were exchanging worried looks; both looked ready to bolt out the door and to Caffrey's aid.  
Each punch, each breath, each slow tick of the clock…  
What was the most discerning was that the thugs didn't seem to want anything from Neal other than to hurt him. _Trust Neal, trust Neal. There's a reason, there's a reason he's holding us off…_ Neal was stubborn and hard-headed, but he wasn't a fool, and he wouldn't endanger himself just for the sake of playing hero. _He's doing this for a reason._

Reason went to hell when Neal screamed, an animalistic growl followed by a series of unrelenting sobs. He could hear Neal dry heaving, coughing, muttering unintelligible pleas. _"Please, please stop… God." _His voice was laced with pain. A sound that Peter didn't recognize could be faintly heard, followed by another scream from Neal. Before today, Peter had never heard such a sound of unadulterated pain. To hear it from Neal, to hear Neal begging for his agony to end… Peter swallowed his growing nausea.

"That's it—we're going in. We're going in now!" Peter darkly commanded.

_"I can take it." _ Neal faintly whispered.

"_That so, Halden?"_

So that's it, Peter thought. Neal's "Jacob Lafferty" alias was made, but Neal himself wasn't. Williamson called him out as Nick Halden. But if so, why was he doing this?

_"You think I can let you walk away from here after trying to last time? You want in on this operation, you pay your dues. Today, you learn what happens when you double cross me."_

Neal gasped oncemore as fist connected with flesh.

"_You can let him down now." _Thud_._

"Take a breath, relax, Nick. We'll be back in a few minutes. Hey, you! Guard the door. He tries to leave, stop him, and feel free to be creative." 

The slam of a door could be heard.

Neal's wheezing, rasping breaths filled the van.

_"Peter… Peter, it's Williamson. It's an alias. Samson Allistar… The charity is a front. Allistar's pissed about…"_

Neal was interrupted by a series of painful-sounding coughs.

_"He's pissed about a job a few years back. He and I were… s'posed to… hmmmghh ahh, ahhh," _Neal fought back a groan.

_"Supposed to… fence a painting I did. Found out he was fencing it to a buddy, gonna re-fence it to someone else, cut me out of m-my share. So I t-took the painting, left him." _Neal swallowed a few times.

_"The charity's a front for h-human trafficking. I'd heard Allistar was into it, but I didn't realize he was going by Williamson now. He-He won't kill me. He's just upset, wants to send a… a message. Once he's done, he'll offer me an in. I-I can get the… get the location of where's he's, where he's…." _

Peter held his breath, waiting for Neal to resume. His heart was pounding in his throat.

Peter didn't realize he was biting the inside of his cheek until he tasted blood. Breathe in, breathe out.

_"I'm fine, okay? Allistar… he like the theatrics. I-I'll try not to react, try to keep strong… s'not as bad as it sounds, okay? I'm okay." _Neal's ragged breaths could, again, be heard. _"Just promise me… promise me you'll stay in the van. You come in here, I don't know what will happen… what he'll do. There are two guards, both armed. And security by the gate. Just promise…promise that…"_

Neal vomited, the painful wrenching sound reverberating through the van. "_Shit. P-Peter… I'm okay, b-but I… please have EMS ready. I'm okay, I swear. I just-"_

The door clicked opened, and Williamson/Allistar's voice could be heard.  
_"So, Nick. Ready to learn the rest of that lesson?"_

_  
_**I'll be updating my other stories this upcoming week! **_


	2. Chapter 2

_"I'm fine, okay? Allistar… he like the theatrics. I-I'll try not to react, try to keep strong… s'not as bad as it sounds, okay? I'm okay." Neal's ragged breaths could, again, be heard."Just promise me… promise me you'll stay in the van. You come in here, I don't know what will happen… what he'll do. There are two guards, both armed. And security by the gate. Just promise…promise that…"_

_Neal vomited, the painful wrenching sound reverberating through the van. "Shit. P-Peter… I'm okay, b-but I… please have EMS ready. I'm okay, I swear. I just-"_

_The door clicked opened, and Samson Allistar's voice could be heard.  
"So, Nick. Ready to learn the rest of that lesson?"_

***

"Diana. Jones. Is there any way to get this comm. system working both ways?" _Is there any way to talk to Neal?_

"The microphone is in his watch. There aren't even any speakers to tamper with," Jones responded. Of course, it make perfect sense. Peter just wasn't thinking clearly. But dammit. If the positions were reversed, he'd want someone telling him what was going on outside. Someone to tell him he was doing alright. Some sort of comfort, especially in the face of the animalistic cruelty.

"God, this must be torture for Neal.." Diana muttered, mostly to herself.  
Two pairs of eyes darted to her as she colored, realizing the implications of what she'd said. _Torture. _

"No, I meant.. I mean, it is, but Caffrey's… He's strong. He defines himself by the masks he can create, the masks he can wear. What they're doing to him… he can't hide. He knows we're listening, and he can't hide from what's happening…" Diana lost herself in thought, her jaw set in place.

"Jesus, Neal.," Peter whispered. He looked down at his own shaking hands, clenched them, unclenched, and then scrambled back to the computer. Peter's heart stopped as he heard the sound of Williamson approaching Neal. He could hear Neal's broken breaths.

_"So, Nick. Ready to learn the rest of that lesson?"_

"C'mon Allistar… Haven't you had enough? We go way back. You've made your point, can't we be civil? I just want to-"

A slap could be heard then, a slap so loud that in even made Jones flinch.

_"You screwed me over, Halden. You want to talk about going way back? We could've been great business partners, and you ruined it. You slimy little-" _CRACK. This time, Neal let out a gruff cry. Neal spoke again, his voice gravely now.

_"Only because you were trying to do the same to me. Mad I beat you to the punch, huh Sammy? _"

It was almost cliché that Samson Allistar chose that moment to throw a devastating punch to Neal's midsection. For agonizing seconds, only the sound of Neal's labored panting could be heard.

Jones and Diana found themselves breathing in cadence with Neal.  
Peter wasn't breathing at all.

_"What's the matter, Halden? Cat got that silver tongue of yours? S'the-matter? No witty come-backs? No" –_punch- _"smart" –_punch- _"remarks?"_

Neal was silent which was perhaps the most unnerving thing of all.

_"You listen to me, you smug son of a bitch. I was kind to you this time Next time you double-cross me, I won't be so thoughtful._" Neal sucked in a breath as something happened, though Peter couldn't discern what it was. __

"Keep it. Consider it a gift between friends. Jerry—let him down." Thud.  
_"That's what we are, huh Nick? Friends?"_

"Friends."

"I'll give you a moment to collect your thoughts, clean yourself up. There's an ajoining bathroom. Please, try and make yourself presentable. If we're going to talk business… I'd rather not have to look at that filth."

The sound of a door closing could be heard.

Peter was anxiously waiting for Neal to start speaking. _Come on, Neal. What's going on in there? Neal.. Neal, come on._ Maybe he'd spoken aloud, because Jones was looking at him.

_Ring. Ring._  
Peter's cell phone!

"Neal?!"

_"Hey."_

"Christ, Neal. Are you alright?" Dumbest question ever.

_"Peter, I'm fine. I've only got a minute before he comes back in here. We'll go through with the meet as planned, okay?"_

"To hell we will. I want you out of there. Tell him… tell him that you need to go home and clean up, say something. I want you out of there, Neal."

_"He won't go for it. He wants to send a message."_

"He did, Neal, he did. Christ, I want you out of there."

_"You don't understand. THIS was only part of it. He wants me to go to the meet like this, send a message to his other associates. Serve as a warning." _

Neal's voice was raspier than Peter had ever heard it, and it had a breathless quality to it.

"Neal… how bad is it?"

_"I've seen worse."_

Peter knew better than to expect a direct answer. One thing was nagging at him, however.

"What did he mean when he said 'keep this' to you? What was that about?"

Neal let out a bitter chortle.

_"He dabbed at my face with his handkerchief, threw it at me when he was done. He probably thought he was being dramatic. It's a white handkerchief, Peter. White. He basically threw in a white flag. The symbolism will not be lost on him when we bring him in."_ Peter could hear the ghost of a smile in Neal's voice.

"Neal… please. How are you, how badly are you hurt?" Peter was afraid to hear the answer, more afraid of not hearing it.

_"Most of it is superficial, looks worse than it is. I think he may've bruised my ribs a little."_

Peter unwittingly found himself thinking back to that gut-wrenching scream… _when Neal screamed, an animalistic growl followed by a series of unrelenting sobs. He could hear Neal dry heaving, coughing, muttering unintelligible pleas. "Please, please stop… God." His voice was laced with pain. A sound that Peter didn't recognize could be faintly heard, followed by another scream from Neal. Before today, Peter had never heard such a sound of unadulterated pain. To hear it from Neal, to hear Neal begging for his agony to end… Peter swallowed his growing nausea._

"Neal, please." Peter's voice may have given a bit on that last sentence, the screams and barely contained whimpers playing themselves on repeat in his mind.

_"I'm fine, Peter. I'm fine, okay?"_

"Don't deflect, dammit, Neal! For once, can you just listen to me?"

He heard Neal sigh.

_"My leg, my calf more specifically. I don't think it's broken, but it felt like it at the time. I can probably walk on it. Just might need some help when I get out of this." _Neal was admitting he was going to need help, something that would normally be comforting to Peter (Neal working with him, being honest, being a member of the team), but in this case was all-too-telling as to how badly Neal was likely injured.

"Christ, Neal. Please, what else can you tell me? Anything, anything at all? And you remember the code phrase, right? Neal? Neal. Caffrey, answer me dammit."

"Sorry," Neal slurred. "Yeah, _it's been a pleasure doing business with you._"

"Things go bad, you give me the word, we get you out of there." _If things go bad. IF.  
_"You say.. you say _bonds. _Bonds, and we storm in. We get you out of there. I don't care, Neal, your life is more important.. your life is more valuable than any of this, you get me? Do you understand that?"

Peter wondered how a man like Neal could have such an appreciation for art, for the things that glittered, for love,for friendship, for the wonders of life… yet have so little regard for his own… how he could fail to see his own value. And that damn well broke Peter's heart.

Feeling the consuming fire of anger and guilt rise like flames, his own disgust fueling the fire, Peter found himself suppressing animalistic urges. He wanted to storm in then and there. Peter was the agent, not Neal. Neal hadn't signed up for this. Neal was _his_ responsibility.

The fire in his stomach rose. Perhaps there was a twisted irony to it. Peter's initial months working with Neal had been marked with distrust, ulterior motives. It wasn't until that day at the hanger when Neal had turned back to him, an unreadable look in his eyes, that Peter had realized what he meant to the younger man. Peter had always knew that the two were friends, but that horrible day… as that explosion took Neal's love from him, it fueled Peter's. Because dammit, the world was so cruel to Neal, and someone needed to show him that there was good in the world. Call him a proxy father if you want, but the same day that that explosion wiped away Neal's future with Kate, it fueled Peter's desire to keep his friend close, to keep him on the straight and narrow, to show him that guys like him could have happy endings.

And it was that same fire that he was fighting now, because here Neal was, trying to do something good, trying to save lives, and the unrelenting grip of the past was dragging him down.

Often, Peter found himself trying to get into Neal's head. Neal was a brilliant man, and he wore the mask of the confidence man with ease. It was in those quiet moments, the small sentences scattered in a weak, that the façade crumbled a bit. It was rare, but at the right time, or maybe even the wrong time… Neal spoke like a man who knew what it was not to be in control of his own life, to be spiraling downward in a life he didn't ask for, a life he didn't want. A few times, Peter had intended to ask Neal about it. To ask him what he wanted, what would make him happy. He'd chickened out, afraid of the answer. Peter prided himself on giving Neal a good life, a better life, but what if it wasn't enough, wasn't what Neal wanted?

Peter swallowed down his feelings of angst.

_"Shit. He's coming back. I have to hang up."_

"You get in to trouble, you say the word. Bonds, remember? Bonds. You get the location, you say the take-down phrase."

_"Got it. Bonds. Promise me you don't move in until I say the phrase. Got it, Peter? I don't care what you hear. Even if I get him to fork over a location. You wait until I hear the phrase, okay?"_

Peter hesitated and exhaled.

"I promise."

The call disconnected.


	3. Chapter 3

_Thank you guys for the feed-back so far! :)  
__

Things had gone so spectacularly wrong. So unbelievably, spectacularly wrong.

The White Collar agents in the van had been forced to listen to a meeting between Neal/Nick Halden, Williamson/Allistar, and a handful of unnamed crooks.

In Peter's mind, he could piece together exactly what was happening. The audio alone was enough to cause nightmares, but his analytical mind and his knowledge of all things Caffrey… It was in the things Neal didn't say, the things he refrained from doing… it was these things that colored the pages. Neal was brilliant as all get out, but Peter knew Neal, understood how the younger man carried himself and acted. Hell, he might even call himself a Caffrey expert (though never to the young con's face).

And the facts were these:  
Neal only spoke when directly spoken to.  
His breathing was labored yet controlled.  
He'd given up reasoning with the man and seemed resigned to his fate.

Peter understood that Neal was trying to conceal his weakness, the true depth of how badly Allistar had hurt him, from everyone in that board room… and likely from everyone in the FBI van as well.

Peter heard as Neal walked to the conference room, no doubt Allistar and those goons accompanying him. In his mind's eye, he could picture it. Neal, his head held high, shoulders back, living the role, playing the part as necessary. Neal, trying to be steady, to be strong.

_"I-I'll try not to react, try to keep strong… s'not as bad as it sounds, okay? I'm okay."_

That's what Neal had said, and, being Neal, he was going to do his best to con everyone into believing it.. but could he con himself, con his weakened body?

On a few occasions, during the walk to the conference room, he could discern a tiny hitch in Neal's breathing—the sound of a man trying to conceal torment. His leg. Dammit, this can't be good for it. Peter had to laugh, bitterly, at that train of thought. Because really, was any of this good?

Days like today… days like today made it harder for Peter to believe in the goodness of mankind. Evils like today… men like Allistar… God, he was so damn angry, so pissed off he couldn't even complete the thought. Because Neal.. God, how could anyone want to hurt Neal? Even when they'd been in their game of cat and mouse, FBI agent and wanted conman.. Peter had never wanted to hurt Neal. Yes, he'd wanted to catch him, shake some sense into the man, get justice… but he'd always admired the man's veracity, his talent, his drive (even if that drive and desire for sparkly things didn't serve him well). 

Ten minutes.  
Eleven.  
Twelve.

The board meeting continued, endlessly to every agent in the van… hell, he couldn't even wrap his head around what Neal was going through. Peter couldn't even put himself in that place.

Allistar seemed to find delight in asking Neal questions, seemed to hang on Neal's every word as it was clear what each word was costing him. Pain spiked his voice, his controlled voice. Neal drawled responses, slurred his speech occasionally.

_"So let's wrap things up for now. Halden, Vickers, you two hang back. The rest of you, I'll be in contact."_

There was the scuttle of papers being gathered, the shuffle of feet.  
Faintly, a door clicking shut could be heard.

_"Nicholas Halden, meet Jason Vickers. Jason Vickers was an associate of mine regarding the project, as I'm sure you're familiar with, Halden."_

"Was? Sammuel.. what's going-"

**_SHOTS FIRED.  
SHOTS FIRED.  
MAN DOWN._**

A thud could be heard.  
Neal's voice could not.

_Come on, Neal, Come one. God, say something._

Diana threw a look to Peter.. Peter, who was already grabbing his gun.

"MAN DOWN. Radio for EMS, Diana. Clinton, cover me, we're going in, we're-"

_"Y-You killed him."_

Neal's voice.

Peter's heart started beating again. Allistar hadn't shot Neal. He'd shot this Vickers person… but why?

_"Jason was a dear friend of mine. Grew up down the street from me, actually. It's a shame, really."_

"What-What kind of a game are you playing here, Allistar?"  
Neal's voice had an edge of panic to it, a very _un_-Neal-like quality.

_"So imagine how disappointed I am when I get waves of some whistle-blowing. When I get wind of the FBI poking around, looking in to my organization. Learn from Jason, Nick. Learn from his mistake, because you are less to me than he was. And if there's one thing I won't tolerate, it's disloyalty. Vickers dug his grave the second he went to the FBI."_

But Vicker's hadn't… and God, if Allistar found out… if he found out, then he'd _kill _Neal.  
_Please, Neal. Play this conservatively. And please, just get out of there._

From Neal's silence, he could gather that Neal had reached the same conclusion. He'd misjudged Allistar, misjudged his violent streak. And Christ, he'd just seen a man gunned down in front of him. That couldn't be good for his psyche. Neal hated guns. Neal didn't _do_ guns.

_"Now, Nick. Friend. Shall we resume business?"_

Peter could only assume that Neal nodded, because the two were walking again.

_"You don't look so well, friend. Here, let me support you. Let me help. Give me your arm—yes, see? I'm not so bad after all? We really should get some ice for that leg."_

That _sick bastard_. Peter's blood was boiling.  
And it didn't help that Neal had gone so quiet. _What's happening in there?  
_A slight whimper could be heard, and then presumably the sound of a door being opened, of white noise.

_"Allistar—what… what is this? God…"_ __

"Boss, I've paged EMS. They're a block out for when Neal gets out of there."

Peter nodded his thanks in her direction. Smart Diana. He hadn't even _thought_ of that. Hell, Neal had even requested EMS and he hadn't given enough concentration to it.

_"Bonds. Bonds." _

Neal's voice was quiet, hushed, breathless.

_"Well, hiya, Caffrey. Tell Burke I said hello, will ya?"_

Keller. God, it was Keller. Keller was in the room. Christ.

_"I don't want you to hear this." _Neal's voice again.

And the audio went dead as Neal cut the watch's power off.


	4. Chapter 4

_I want to thank you all for the incredible reviews; knowing that people are interested in the story I'm telling drives me to write and update even more! I'm working on the next chapter and am trying to do the scene justice. I've built it up so much, so I want to make sure it's my best work before I publish it! Still, once I start writing a fic, it spawns a life of its own, and I'll probably have the next chapter up today or tonight.  
__

"Jones, cover me! Diana, I want eyes on this building. Anyone tries to leave, you stop them."  
Peter was already clutching his gun and exiting the van.

"Boss, the ambulance, should I bring them in?" Diana's voice was uncharacteristically shrill. "They're still a block out."

"Peter… in there, they hear sirens, they might get spooked, they might…" Jones countered, the worry evident in his voice.

"Dammit. Okay, Di, sit on the building, cover us. I'll radio once I have Neal secured."  
Peter felt his heart racing, and he subconsciously clutched his service weapon tighter to try and catch his breath. Swallowing heard, he found himself propelling forward. He didn't have to turn to know that Jones was behind him.

The front gate of the old building was, as Neal had informed them, guarded. Not wasting any time, he flashed his badge.

"FBI, open this gate now." Peter was going for powerful and intimidating, but the bubbling anxiety in his gut shot that to hell. Even he heard the waver in his voice.

"Nobody gets in here without permission," one guard replied indifferently.

"Open. The. Damn. Gate." Deep breaths, deep breaths. But Peter's adrenaline was in full gear, his heart was still galloping, and dammit, there wasn't enough air. Peter Burke didn't _do _panic, but if he didn't get in that fucking building soon, he was going to lose it.

"Nobody gets in without the boss's permission. You got a warrant?"

Peter huffed, seeing red. Jones was saying something to the guards and, behold, the gate was opening.  
Peter was hyperaware of rushing towards the main door as he cast a look at Jones. The two were running side by side as Jones responded to the unspoken question.

"Told them if we came back with a warrant, they'd have the FBI on their tail for any illegal activity we could pin their ass to the wall with. They let us in now, I won't touch a hair on their heads."

Peter momentarily frowned.

"I didn't say anything about Diana, though." He motioned with his head. And sure enough, Diana was approaching the two men, seeming to provoke them. Peter couldn't tell what all was said, but he caught the words _"bitch"_, "_no warrant", _and then in Diana's throaty voice… well, some very unsavory words about their masculine anatomy. One of the guards stepped towards her, but before he could so much as raise his hand, she was grinning angrily and cuffing the man for attempted assault of a federal agent.

_Remind me to promote her, _Peter thought fleetingly.

He and Jones would have allowed themselves to smile at Diana's resourcefulness were it not for the more pressing matter of…. Neal.

The building itself was relatively small, and the main floor was a simple lobby. Peter nodded towards Jones- _distract the front desk so I can get upstairs_- and quickly assessed the situation. Within seconds, Jones talking to the young woman at the front desk, carefully diverting her attention. Peter couldn't overhear what was being said, though to be honest, he didn't really care. He walked as quickly as he would allow himself where as not to draw attention to himself and was able to slip up the maintenance steps with ease. Taking the steps two at a time, he found himself at the door to the second and only other level.

Was it just him, or did he hear a muffled cry?

God, this was bad. This whole op was a disaster.

Peter reached for the doorknob…

Locked. God, could he not catch a _break_ or something?

He huffed out and, throwing caution to the wind because _hell_ Neal could be _dying_, he threw his body, his weight, into the door that, luckily, opened outward. He splintered through the doorframe with ease and gauged the situation. He was in a hallway, and there was a glass room to his left, likely the board room from earlier. _Neal could be dying right now._ His chest ached at the thought. All he could feel was dread and the urgent need to see Neal, find him. It took everything in him not to scream for the young man… but Peter couldn't afford to attract any more attention to himself.

Sweeping the hallways, he was relieved to find them empty… though that relief was short-lived. Because if nobody was out here, likely they were all wherever Neal was. Wherever _Keller_ was. His heart tripped over the name and he swallowed the bitter poison that the man's very name brought.

His hands were miraculously steady as he lead with his gun, quickening his pace as he assessed each vacant room. The hair on the back of Peter's neck stood up—someone was behind him. He was ready to fight, he was ready to-

It was Jones.

"First floor is evacuated, NYPD is securing the area silently. No one up here should know we're on site."

Peter exhaled and nodded. They found themselves at the end of the hallway that, naturally, branched left and right. With no time to think, the two men split paths, Jones taking the left and Peter the right.

"Clinton…?" Peter looked toward the man who, in return, solemnly nodded. "Yeah, you too, Peter."

And on that note, Peter raced towards the end of the hallway towards the door that had a 50/50 chance of containing Allistar, Keller, and Neal.

He opened the door, gun raised… and it was empty.

With his heart doing double-time, he raced towards where he and Jones had split, where he know knew that his men were.

On the floor by his feet, he caught sight of a bloodied white handkerchief. Hearing a crash and a shot, he opened the door…


	5. Chapter 5

_This chapter jumps around a lot. It's the same moment told from different perspectives, and then as the story progresses, some of the moments overlap. I hope it isn't horrible to follow. If anything is unclear, I apologize. Shoot me a note and I'll try and fix things up. Re: the upcoming hospital chapter- I'm not very good at writing hospital scenes, so I'm warning you in advance._

_

  
Neal lay on the floor where he was left… he was so cold.  
He was so _cold_.  
_He was so cold._

_Though come to think of it… was he even lying down? Neal was vaguely aware of a pressure on his wrists, and he was pretty sure his arms were pulled taut._

Still, oddly enough, he felt numb. He knew he should have been concerned with the lack of pain. His head was lulled forward, drooped against his chest, as he wilted forward.

Keller's angry eyes flashed beneath his closed eyelids.  
Keller's fists.  
Keller's angry words.  
It had been a perfect storm of chaos. Keller hadn't even known he was there. Allistar was going to welcome him to the operation, was going to introduce his silent partner, Matthew Keller.

It was mere happenstance, it was a fluke, it was…  
cold.

He could hear commotion around him, and then nothing at all, and then some words, and then nothing. Was he dreaming? He got the feeling that he was drifting in and out, in and out, in and out. Aware, not aware, aware, not aware.

Nothing made sense, everything was jumbled together, words were mush, endless mush, what was happening, and why was he so cold? It was becoming more and more difficult to form coherent thoughts. He thought maybe he was mumbling something, but he couldn't tell.

As he felt his grip on reality diminish, his mind replayed and replayed his own personal hell.

* * *

Keller was grinning, seeming to enjoy the anguish that Neal was in.

And oh, how Neal cried out in pain, and God, it was the worst sound Jones had ever heard in his life. He'd barely made it two steps toward Keller, two steps inside the room, when he felt a blow to his temple… and his vision greyed out for a second. Doubling over, and then falling to one knee, he found himself at Caffrey's eye level. Caffrey, who was handcuffed to a bolted bookshelf, his hands swollen and pink, his body completely limp and radiating tension at the same time… the picture of a man too weak to fight. He didn't like how Neal was looking. His eyes were distant, though still ablaze with pain.

"_Bonds_," Neal was gasping pleadingly, trying not to scream again.

Jones forced himself to turn around just in time for his gun to be knocked from his hands. The gun flittered across the floor, across the room. Wilson/Allistar had his own gun raised, a pistol. Jones deduced that the pistol was what he'd been struck with. As the two men grappled for control of the pistol, Keller drew his attention from Caffrey to the two of them. He looked almost excited, welcoming of the challenge.

As Jones and Allistar struggled for the weapon, a shot rang out. And then Peter was there.

* * *

Keller got down to his level, grinning at him. Neal looked up to meet his glare, breathing heavily, his jaw clenched.

Neal looked up briefly and locked eyes with Jones. He wanted to warn Jones because Allistar was _right_ behind him, but his mind wasn't his own. He couldn't control his words, and it was as though his mouth was on autopilot. _Bonds. Bonds. Bonds._

Why was Jones here? Where was Peter? Why was Keller here? With each new punch, things grew more and more confusing until Neal couldn't even discern why he was here, cuffed to a bookshelf, where here even was, and what in the hell was even going on. The world was pain. That was all Neal knew. Pain and bonds, _bonds, bonds, bonds._

* * *

Opening the door, he was frozen in place. Jones was mid-grapple with Allistar, trying to tear a gun from his grasp. He was bloodied, a single gash above his right eyebrow, and his own service weapon was someone under a crate in the room. Because that's what this was, a storage room. Keller was by Neal and, oh God, _Neal…_ He looked awful… didn't even look alive.. Was he saying something? What was Neal saying? His lips were moving, but Peter couldn't read them.

Meanwhile, Allistar had gain the advantage on Jones and had his pistol pointed directly at the agent's head.

Peter raised his service weapon at Allistar. God, it was all happening so fast.

"You shoot him, I shoot you. Is that what you want? Drop. Your. Weapon."

"No, I don't think he will, Agent Burke," Keller drawled. Peter stole a glimpse towards the sound of the voice. Keller was smiling like a maniac, like a mad man. He toyed with the gun in his hands, Jones's gun; he'd retrieved it from the ground.

"There's no way out," Peter spoke gravely. "How do you think you're going to get out of here?"

Peter dare not take his eyes off of Keller… Keller, who was now aiming the gun at Neal.

"Agent Burke, you're going to lower your weapon right now, or I won't hesitate to.. we.l….." He raised the gun and smashed it into Neal's chest, his finger never leaving the trigger, the barrel of the gun never _not_ pointed at Neal.

_"Bonds, bonds, bondsbondsbonds," _he was whimpering, his voice barely a whisper, barely a breath.

"Kid's been saying that since he came in here. Can't get him to shut up about it.." Keller mused, smiling.

And Peter's heart broke in half.

He felt a chill; he knew that Keller wasn't bluffing. He hesitantly lowered his weapon.

Allistar smiled. "YOU—with me. Let's go." He beckoned for Jones to follow. Jones stole a glance at Peter before following.

"You try and follow me," he motioned to Peter, "I kill him. You understand?"

Keller was positively beaming. Never in his life had Peter felt such a visceral desire to hurt another human being, though Allistar's previous displays had brought him close.

Jones and Allistar exited the room, Jones acting as a human shield for the man.

"Burke. Put your gun on the floor."

Peter looked from Keller to Neal. Neal wasn't moving at all.

Reluctantly, he set his gun on the floor.

Before Keller had a chance to do or say anything else, in a magnificent sweep, Neal kicked his legs out, catching Keller off guard. Keller momentarily lost his balance as Neal gave another blind kick. Neal cried out from the action.

The gun that Keller had been holding clattered to the floor, giving Peter just enough time to reach for his gun. Keller scrambled for his fallen gun, successfully retrieving it, but Peter was already aimed at him, poised and ready to shoot.

Keller was cornered and he knew it… and so he fired three shots in a rapid succession, though not at Neal. At Peter.

_Bang!  
Bang!  
Bang!_

Peter felt a stinging in his left arm and Keller darted away. A detatched part of him recognized that he'd been hit, grazed by Keller's bullet.

Neal's breathing was wet and rough.

"Oh, God," Peter muttered. "Neal!" his voice rose in volume as he scrambled to his friend's aid, sliding on his knees next to the man.

Just then, he heard footsteps coming by the door that Allistar and Jones had exited, the same one that Keller had just fled through. Ignoring the throbbing in his arm, Peter raised his gun.

It was Jones; he looked a bit worse for the wear, but he was in one piece.

The two spoke rapidly, in a matter of seconds, conveying what needed to be said.

"Got Allistar secured ; NYPD was waiting for us downstairs."  
"Keller?"  
"Dammit, didn't see him, he must have- Peter, you're hit?"  
"It's just a graze."

Jones nodded towards Neal. "Peter, is he.."  
"He's alive; Christ, this is bad, this is bad."  
Neal wasn't reacting to Peter's fumbling touch.

Jones slid to the ground on Neal's opposite side, the two of them working to get the handcuffs off of Neal. Undoing the cuffs and freeing him, Neal began to fall forward. Peter caught him and lowered him to the dirty ground, Jones's hands hovering the entire time. Jones stripped his jacket off to use as a pillow for Neal's head.

Neal's back suddenly arched as he gasped, a ragged a raw sound. _Christ._

"Bonds," he whispered.__

"Go get the paramedics!" Peter shouted. Jones nodded and ran down the stairs.

* * *

"Wake up, please wake up," Peter pleaded, his voice urgent.

Neal stirred slightly.

"Neal?"

Neal opened his eyes. God, the light hurt. It was so foggy, so hard to wade through it.

"What happened?" He had never in his life felt as weak as he felt at that moment. It was difficult to keep his eyes open.

"Christ, Neal. Just… Christ."

Neal placed a trembling hand to Peter's chest, feeling his heartbeat. Peter was here, he was real. This nightmare was almost over.

"Knew you'd come…"

Neal thought maybe he heard Peter sob. But why would Peter cry for him, worry for him? Neal worried for Peter often. For Elizabeth, too, for Mozzie, for June, sometimes Diana and Jones. It was nice to think that someone worried for him.

Neal felt hands on him. He could feel their weight, their calluses, but there was no pain with these hands. These hands represented sturdiness, something to ground him, hold him in place, help him remain as he needed to be.

He thought maybe he heard a voice, though he heard more of a humming of vibrations than anything else.

_"Neal. Neal."_

Neal's lashes fluttered a bit, and he opened his eyes. When had they slipped shut?

Peter huffed his relief.

"Neal, please. I know it's hard, Christ.. please, just stay awake. Stay with me. Please. Help is coming, five minutes. Talk to me, tell me about something." __

Neal sucked in a breath. The knowledge that help was coming was all he needed to relax. Five minutes. He could last five more minutes

"Neal. Are you tracking?"

"Yeah… I'm okay," he reacted. Nothing else… like speaking was enough of a struggle. Like it was too difficult for him to think about words.

"Neal, I need you to talk to me."

Neal struggled speak, coughing a few times.

"Keller?" Neal drawled.

Peter forced a breath out.

"We lost track of him. Must've slipped... But I swear to God, Neal, I swear to God we're gonna find him. Diana's securing the area now. Allistar's cuffed, Jones is sitting on him by the van. NYPD is combing the block, and we're gonna get him. You did good, Neal. You did good."

Peter was suddenly overcome with emotion, raw emotion. And, if possible, he felt even more protective over Neal.

"Neal, your eyes. Open your eyes. That's it, that's it…" he encouraged.

Again, when had they closed? Neal sighed, his breath rattling in his chest a bit; why was it so difficult to breathe? Sleep attempted to claim him, and God, it was tempting… to close his eyes, to escape… but there was a part of him that was terrified that giving in to that desire, giving in to the sleep, would be permanent. But even as he thought that, he could feel himself letting go.

And so he forced a breath in and, God that hurt.  
Suddenly, it was hard to breathe. He gasped for air, coughing up something warm and wet.

Realizing what was going on, Peter helped the younger man sit, pulling him against his own chest for support. Neal grunted a bit and then visibly relaxed, his new position helping him to breathe. Or maybe it was the support, knowing that nobody else could hurt him, knowing that Peter was there. Neal was still coughing, gurgling, wheezing.

"Just breathe, just breathe. I've got you. I've got you. You're okay. I've got you," Peter repeated, like it was his mantra. "I've got you. I've got you," he whispered into the young man's ear. Peter's voice was thick, and it burned to swallow, was bitter to swallow. His eyes danced across Neal's broken body, surveying the damage. God, this was so bad. This was so bad.

"No, no-no-no-no, Neal, hey. Keep your eyes open, okay? Stay with me. Keep them open. Don't you dare go to sleep. Neal."

Again, Neal forced his eyes open. He could hear voices from the hall. _Help is here_, he told himself. _Just stay awake and you'll be ok._

"Keep your eyes open. Stay here with me. Neal."_  
_  
He tried, he really did. He could hear Peter shouting his name… and then there was nothing at all.


	6. Chapter 6

_"Just breathe, just breathe. I've got you. I've got you. You're okay. I've got you," Peter repeated, like it was his mantra. "I've got you. I've got you," he whispered into the young man's ear. Peter's voice was thick, and it burned to swallow, was bitter to swallow. His eyes danced across Neal's broken body, surveying the damage. God, this was so bad. This was so bad._

"No, no-no-no-no, Neal, hey. Keep your eyes open, okay? Stay with me. Keep them open. Don't you dare go to sleep. Neal."

Neal's eyes slipped shut. Dammit, this was bad.

Peter could hear voices from the hallway. _Hurry up, hurry up,_ he pleaded mentally.__

"Keep your eyes open. Stay here with me. Neal."

Neal wilted a bit, drooping forward, his head lulling forward. Reaching forward, Peter readjusted the young man and heaved Neal's upper body so that his partner's back was against his chest.

"Come on, Neal, come on. Neal, Neal, NEAL!"

Neal wasn't reacting. And what the hell was taking the paramedics so long?

"I've got you, I've got you," Peter whispered, his lips at Neal's ear.  
"Come on, Neal, Come on, don't do this to me. Wake up, please God, wake up."

Paramedics seemingly materialized from nowhere and were at his side.

"Sir, are you hurt? Sir?"  
"I'm fine, go to him, go to him, I'm fine!"

"Sir, I'm going to need you to let go of him. We need to help him. Sir, do you understand?"  
"Peter, Peter, you need to let go of him."

Peter sluggishly looked up and saw Jones at his side as well. He nodded, ashamed, and relinquished his sweet burden, resting his head delicately on the cruel carpeted floor. Paramedics were around Neal like a swarm of bees, poking and prodding, rattling off numbers and things Peter couldn't even hope to understand.

Peter caught the eyes of one paramedic, her face aghast, the implications of what the battered young man before her had been through clear on her face: _torture_.

Peter's eyes implored, and what he saw in hers was less than comforting. She gave a quick nod of her head before returning to the fallen young man.

Jones was saying something to him now, and when he looked, he saw that Neal had been placed on a gurney, a neck brace round his neck. The kid was pale, _so pale_, and frighteningly still, mind for a slight tremor behind his eyelids… and then his body began to jerk and twist and writhe like a violent death-dance.

"He's seizing!" Somebody yelled.

Peter's head felt heavy, and he gulped. Jones was repeating something to him, hoisting him up up up and away from Neal so that he was standing.

"Peter?"

Peter flicked his gaze to Jones and _whoa, whoa, Peter, you okay? Help, I need help over here!_  
Peter was falling falling falling down now.

_"He's got a bullet wound to his right side," _a voice informed.  
_"He's got a graze on his arm as well," _another voice added.  
Looks like Keller's aim had been better than Peter had realized, and now that the adrenaline of the battle was wearing off…

Peter's eyes rolled into the back of his head, and darkness overcame him.

-  
**_I know this chapter was very short, but the next one will be up very soon and will have more substance. _**


	7. Chapter 7

He came to mere moments after falling; a single paramedic was crouching over him and Jones was saying something; he could only guess that the remaining paramedics were with Neal. Still, it took Peter a few minutes to track the situation.

_Peter?_

His heart was pounding in his chest, and his eyes sought reverently for Neal, _Neal._

"Peter—" It was Jones's voice again, and he sounded like he'd been trying to get Peter's attention for a while.

"Where's Neal?"

"Sir, you've got a bullet graze to your shoulder and a somewhat deeper graze on your right lower chest."

"I'm fine—I'm fine, dammit. Where's Neal?"

"Peter, I'm going to call Elizabeth." Jones again.

"Dammit, I'm FINE."

Lights seemed to be flashing brightly, sounds were magnified, and everything was happening so fast, _so very fast_, and dammit, if someone didn't tell him where Neal was…

_Fuck._

Peter's breath caught and his thoughts were momentarily interrupted as the EMT's hands were prodding the area. "Doesn't seem too deep, though I'd still like to admit you and stitch both up, get you on some antibiotics to ward off infection.." she was musing aloud.

Peter exhaled and finally made eye contact with Jones. Jones's bloodied gash was still bleeding sluggishly, and Peter could see a bloodied handkerchief in Jones's right hand…

_"He dabbed at my face with his handkerchief, threw it at me when he was done. He probably thought he was being dramatic. It's a white handkerchief, Peter. White. He basically threw in a white flag. The symbolism will not be lost on him when we bring him in."_

Jones followed Peter's gaze to the cloth in his hand and haphazardly shoved it in his pocket. "It isn't—this isn't from- it's being bagged into evidence right now. This is Diana's." Jones swallowed thickly, and Peter took note of his red-rimmed eyes.

Peter huffed out a breath, pulling back a bit from the paramedic.

"I'm fine, I swear. It's not even that bad, just stings. I'll go to the hospital, I swear, just… just please, let me find Neal, go in with him. He… He doesn't…" _He doesn't have anybody._

The words died in his throat.  
But really, Neal did have others, so what right did Peter have to put himself on such a pedestal?

Mozzie would do anything for Neal—their odd relationship had left Peter uneasy at first, but ever since they'd returned from Cape Verde, something had changed in Mozzie's and his own (Peter) relationship. Peter had witnessed firsthand just how much the older man would do for Neal, and as odd as the man was… he was a great friend.

And Neal had June, sweet June. He had Sara, even if they weren't on romantic terms. He had Diana, Jones, Elizabeth, Alex… he had people who cared about him, loved him, and yet… yet he carried himself with a flame, with a reckless abandon. Neal lived wildly and contained at the same time, pressed into perfect suits and dazzling smiles, yet combusting, burning from the inside out. Inside those icy blue eyes was a fire within, a fire consuming the man, a haunting reflection of the fire that had consumed Kate on that horrible day in the hanger.

Elizabeth had asked about that day once, and Peter had deflected, saying merely that he was worried about Neal.  
Often, he thought about it. Neal never talked about Kate, never seemed to carry any of it with him... but his eyes... they held it all.

While the fire had killed Kate instantly.. it was slowly burning Neal.

Would the fire burn out today?

Peter's mind was moving miles a minute. He shook his head, cleared it, and reassessed the situation. Call it adrenaline or sentimentality, but Peter was really pawning into his Caffrey sense today. _God, if Neal knew what a sap I was being.. He'd never let me live it down._

_Christ- if he's even conscious. _  
Images of a beaten Neal, a battered man... _bonds bonds bonds._

"I need to be with Neal right now."

Simple, to the point, honest. Neal was his friend, but it was so much more than that… so much more.

"I need Neal."  
_Spoken like a child, but this day… the things he'd seen, the things Neal had lived.._

Nothing was going to be the same after this… and the only thing that would let Peter breath again would be seeing Neal, talking to Neal, letting himself go to that parental and sappy place that he tried so desperately to hide.

Jones nodded, and with a dejected sigh, the EMT stepped away from him. She opened her mouth to speak but was stopped as Jones placed a hand on her shoulder. Jones visibly sagged and gruffly cleared his throat before speaking.

"Let me tell him… I should- I should be the one to tell him."

_Tell me what?_  
Peter's mouth was dry.


	8. Chapter 8

Peter felt his breath catch in his throat, and if such a thing was tangible enough to make him choke, it would have. He felt physically unable to inhale and was momentarily reminded of the moment before he'd asked Elizabeth to marry him—unable to do anything but wait for what was about to be said… though no, really, this was nothing like that. Because Peter wasn't waiting on a possible yes to change his life, because there was no happy scenario here… because Peter was waiting to find out if Neal, _Neal_, was alright. If he was breathing. _Hell, if he was even alive._

The whole situation made him feel nauseous, made his head swim, because things like this simply did not happen in real life. He and Neal were a team, albeit an unconventional one, but violence was never so apparent, so gritty, so _real_ before now. And Neal was not a violent man, so for him to suffer so profusely, for such evil to manifest itself… this just wasn't happening. It couldn't be happening. Not to him. Not to Neal.

Peter could still see Neal cuffed to the shelf.  
He could still see the blood cascading down his battered face, the pain seeping from his very essence, the movement of his lips as he'd pleaded for salvation, for help, _bonds bonds bonds_.

Jones thought that maybe he could see Peter's heart breaking.

Peter's eyes must have widened marginally, because Jones had placed a tentative hand on his shoulder, and Jones was _not _a touchy-feely person. _Fuck, this is bad_. _Just tell me, tell me, no don't tell me… no tell me_.

Peter needed to know… although as of now, he could cling to the belligerent hope that Neal was fine, that he was simply a bit traumatized (and wasn't it screwed up that that was a positive outcome in all of this) but that he would make a full recovery, that he was resting in the ambulance now, that he was charming the EMS at this very moment. Peter could tell himself that Neal was fine, that Neal was okay, that all of this was going to be okay.. and in the back of his mind, he knew that Jones was about to rip the rug out from under him. But he needed to know, _Neal_ needed for him to know, and as comfortable as it was to remain in the dark, Peter was going to be there for his friend.

"Peter.. maybe you should come with me, sit down. We should—"

"Enough!" Peter's voice masked his fear, his crumbling façade, his exhaustion. Dammit, he wasn't a child, and he needed Jones to be straight with him.

"Jones, I appreciate your concern, but I'm still your boss, and you answer to me. So stop placating me… just… please." His voice gave a little at the end, and he sighed, running a hand over his face.

"Just tell me."

Jones looked over towards the paramedic who was still lingering nearby, presumably in case Peter needed her.

There were enough eyes on him, and so as Jones kind of nodded her away, dismissed her, Peter felt maybe a bit better… or at least as much better as he could given the situation.

_Is he… is he…_

"Neal's alive, Peter." Jones seemed to sense his trepidation.

Peter felt shaky with relief and let out an unsteady breath. _He's alive. He's alive._

"It's not good, Peter… before you, um-" Jones cleared his throat nervously.  
"Before you went down, Neal.. he had a seizure. Diana rode with him to the hospital, but it's not good. They're saying something about... about…" Jones swallowed thickly.

"He flat-lined as they were taking him out of here, Peter. I-I watched his eyes roll into the back of his head. He.. He died in front of me. They brought him back, thank God they brought him back, but it's… it's really bad, Peter. I've never seen… I've…" Shaking his head, Jones looked down.

"It's just… it's bad."

"He's gonna make it though, right? " Because of course he was—Neal Caffrey was superhuman, was invincible, and there was no way that fists could kill him. He was Neal _fucking_ Caffrey.

"I… I don't know, Peter. I was talking with EMS a bit, and I'm waiting to hear from Diana… but nobody can be certain of anything until they get him to the hospital."

Sensing that Jones was at the end of his reserves, Peter reluctantly stopped prying. Instead, he turned towards the previously dismissed paramedic, inquiring.

"Sir, I've been here with the two of you. Agent.. Jones? Agent Jones relayed, in simple terms, all that I could tell you at this point."

Peter turned back to Jones. Neal needed them.

Jones nodded, gripping the keys to the van.  
"Let's go."

The hospital was a swarm of people, but luckily, flashing their FBI badges had gotten them past the circus.

_Mr. Caffrey is being seen at the moment.  
Mr. Caffrey is in surgery right now.  
No news.  
No news._

_Peter..  
Peter.  
_Peter.

Diana's throaty voice interrupted him.  
"Peter, you should call Elizabeth. And see if she can get ahold of the little man. Jones and I are each gonna call June and Sara."

Peter nodded and felt a surge of appreciation and love for his team.

With fumbling fingers, her pulled out his phone from his pocket, stopping morbidly to look at the crusted blood under his fingernails. Some of it was his, some if it Neal's. _Blood brothers…_ No, nothing like that. Because Neal could be dying.

Neal could be _dying._

_"Hello? Hon?"_

He must have dialed.

He cleared his throat. "El—Elizabeth…"

_"Peter? Is everything okay?"_

"I'm fine.. I.." He exhaled- God, this was hard.  
"It's Neal. He's uh—we're at Lennox Hill Hospital. It's bad, El." His voice cracked, and damn him for sounding so weak.

He could hear Elizabeth's car keys jingling over the line, could hear her grabbing her purse.

_"I'll call Mozzie."_

Peter grunted in response.

_"Peter… How… How bad is it?"_

Images of Neal writhing on the ground, gasping for breath, fading away seared into Peter's brain and danced wickedly before him.

"Just hurry, El."


	9. Chapter 9

_This is a very short chapter—apologies. I'll be back to churning out chapters soon!  
__

It came to him in bits and pieces. At first, he was aware of a faint humming sound, but before he could wonder about it anymore, there was nothing, and he was swept back under the murky water.

The second time he stirred, he was aware of discomfort. Not pain per say—this place, wherever he was, had no agony. But his legs felt stiff, unused, and he was aware of a tugging sensation. He felt cramped and cricked and old and wary. Again, he heard the humming sound, though this time he thought he heard some beeping sounds as well. Before he could think to question any of it, he was pulled back under.

The third time, Neal faintly turned his head towards the sound of the humming. He wasn't sure what it was, who it was, but something about it was warm and familiar… something about it _felt safe._

Neal felt fingers carding through his hair, gently and tenderly and sweetly, and he instinctively curled into the gesture. His strength was spent, the simple action costing him much. And with that, Neal went back under.

Elizabeth smiled against the threatening tears. She didn't trust herself to speak and instead resumed her vigil, gently running her fingers through Neal's hair. She cleared her throat and continued the song she had been humming to him.

***


	10. Chapter 10

Her hands were combing through Neal's hair, gently. Elizabeth might not be able to take away the bruises, the pain… but maybe she could provide some comfort. Neal was stirring, seeming to wake up. He'd woken up a two times, but he'd been disoriented each time. She'd been sure to tell him he was safe, that he was loved, and that she was there. And each time, he smiled as she hummed to him. Neal seemed to enjoy it, a faint smile on his lips.

Elizabeth's stomach was grumbling, and she decided to use the opportunity to run home and feed Satch, maybe make some lunch to bring back for her and Peter. Peter, who was asleep on the hospital chair, looking haggard and gruff. She smiled in spite of it, taking in the sight of her two boys. Peter hadn't been there either time Neal had woken up- he'd been in surgery, and then he'd been in the bathroom- and he'd been beating himself up over it. Elizabeth understood her husband and knew that trying to get him to leave would be a waste of time, a lost cause.

She rose, stretching the kinks out of her neck and limbs, and crossed over to Peter. She kissed him softly on the temple, and he began to stir.

"Going home for a little while, hon. I'll be back soon."  
"Yeah, okay, love you," Peter whispered, still groggy.

And then it was just the two of them—Peter and Neal.

* * *

Ironically, it was Neal who woke Peter up.

Feeling a breeze on his face, Peter started. He must have fallen asleep with his head on the mattress. He yawned and sat up only to see a grinning Neal.

"Were you… were you blowing on my face?" Peter asked incredulously, beaming in spite of himself because Neal was awake, Neal was awake!

"Had to… wake you somehow. Y-You were…." Neal struggled to catch his breath. "You were snoring."

Peter stole a glance to Neal's battered wrists and understand why he was hesitant to move his hands, his arms, hell, his body.

"How are you feeling?"  
Neal was awake but so very quiet… not quite _there._ His eyes were drooping, drooping, drooping, and then closed.

Peter was beginning to think he had fallen asleep when he spoke into the quiet.

"I thought I was going to die," he said, his voice just above a whisper. And damn it all if Peter's heart didn't break.

Neal chose that moment to try to sit up, only to find that he couldn't. He didn't have the strength. Peter could see the muscles in Neal's neck tense up, could see the strain Neal was putting on his abused muscles as the simple act of moving drained him. And God, Neal was still so pale.

His deflated and miserably weak expression hit Peter deeply. He attempted to help Neal sit up and found his help rejected. "I can do it myself," Neal huffed, his voice a whisper.

His partner's rebuff stung a little, but Peter had been hovering over Neal a lot lately and chalked it up to Neal trying to ascertain at least a bit of his independence. Still, Peter would have been more inclined to believe in Neal's strength if Neal wasn't so frail-looking. His eyes were at half-mast and he seemed to be struggling to even force breath out of his lips to form words.

Neal closed his eyes, and for a moment, Peter wondered if he'd fallen asleep.

_"I can't… I should be… stronger than this," _Neal whispered brokenly.

And damn it all if that didn't hurt, if it didn't slam right through Peter's heart.

Peter's hands were surprisingly tender as he slid them behind Neal's neck and back.

"You're the strongest man I know." And he meant it.

Neal's lips twitched into a sad smile, and he seemed to draw strength from Peter's words. Peter eased Neal into a sitting position and fumbled to adjust the pillows behind the man. Neal was shaking with exertion and began to droop, his head lulling forward.

"No-no-no, it's okay, shhhhh." Peter eased Neal back against the bed, cradling his head delicately. His eyes were open now, but he had a dazed expression. Peter figured that the change in position was disorienting for him.

Peter sat down opposite Neal, easing his chair closer and closer to the bed so that his knees were touching the bed-frame. He brushed a damp curl from Neal's forehead and was surprised that he didn't feel awkward about it at all. Neal's head was tilted down slightly, along with his gaze, in a mixture of shyness from the open affection he was receiving and the exhaustion and weakness he was fighting.

"I thought I was going to die, and the only thing I could think about was how lucky I was."

This wasn't what Peter had been expecting to hear. Because he'd heard what those bastards had done to Neal, had _seen_ what Allistar and Keller had done to Neal. He'd seen the blood, the bruises, the pain, God, had he seen the pain. And during it all, the _last_ thing he'd felt was any presence of luck.

Neal smiled tiredly. His eyes were a startling contrast to his pale face, vibrant and wet and full of life. _Full of life._

"What you've given to me… this life, Peter… it's more than I could have ever dreamed for myself. With Kate.."

Neal cut himself off upon realizing he'd said too much, ventured into a forbidden area, her very name seeming to choke him.

"Before…. Before, it was different. Dreaming of a larger than life existence… but what you've helped me get, Peter… you've given me a real life. Friends, a sense of purpose, of doing good… fa-"

Neal stopped again, realizing he was saying too much. His mouth tightened in a line and his eyes took on a harder edge to them.

"Family." Peter finished for Neal.

Neal turned glassy eyes towards Peter, met his gaze directly. Peter smiled, even with his heart breaking… but he found the emotional footing to continue. "I mean it, Neal. What you did… what you…" Now it was Peter who couldn't continue. The memories were still too fresh, the wounds still healing…. Peter could hear Neal's cries when the room was silent, could see him writhing in pain when he closed his eyes.

Neal seemed to understand and nodded his head; Peter wasn't sure if Neal couldn't talk due to emotion (as Peter) or if he was merely too weak to even think about words.

"You're the strongest man I know, Neal. You're the strongest man I know."

Neal was fading fast, and with a sad smile, Peter made to move his hand from Neal's space. A part of Peter felt Jaded. He'd been waiting so long to see Neal, and he didn't want him to go to sleep just yet. But he knew Neal needed rest… could see what these past few moments had cost the man.

"Family," Neal whispered, seeming to test the word out.

The two men were quiet, Peter intently studying Neal and Neal staring at his lap.

The comfortable silence stretched into an awkward one… and then simply _too long_, doing nothing to alleviate Peter's worry.

"Neal?"  
Neal's eyes were still fixed on his lap.

"Family," he whispered.

"Neal, are you alright?" He tentatively placed a hand on the back of Neal's neck and sighed when the sensation of warm, sticky liquid reached his fingertips. "You're bleeding," he frowned.

"Am I?" Neal seemed disconnected.

Peter was alarmed to see that his right hand was coated in blood, and he felt nauseous looking at it, smelling its coppery tang.

With his left hand, Peter reached for the call button.

"Neal, you with me?"

A beat passed.

"Sometimes, I want to give in to it."

"What are you talking about?" Peter's pulse was thud-thud-thudding even quicker than before. Neal's white hospital pillow had a sickening red/brown stain that was quickly spreading, seeping through the thin cotton of the pillowcase.

"The fire, Peter," Neal drawled as if the answer was obvious.

_The fire?_

"Kate was afraid of it, you know."

Dammit, where was the doctor? Peter pressed the call button again.

"I wish it had taken me instead," Neal said, matter-of-factly. And it was something about the way he said it that deeply disturbed Peter… Even in this dazed state, it was said with an air of certainty, said in a way that left no doubt that this was something Neal had thought about before, had thought about often. _I wish it had taken me instead._

"Sometimes I think it still wants me…" He frowned. "Am I on fire now, Peter?"

A nurse stepped into the room, took in Peter's terrified eyes. "I need help over here!" The anxiety in his voice was tangible.

Neal lost consciousness.  
Peter felt sick.


	11. Chapter 11

_Darling? Oh my darling Neal… won't you open your eyes for me?_

Someone was running fingers through his hair, and Neal's first thought was to assess the situation, to perceive it as a threat as it was such an unfamiliar sensation… but this felt nice. _It felt nice_.

Neal wanted to remain still, to relish in the attention, but the voice… she was so delicate and loving and kind, and Neal wanted to please her. He feebly turned his head into the gesture, the warmth of her hand.

_Oh darling, Neal? Neal, can you open your eyes for me, please?_

She still sounded muffled, sounded so far away.

_Lilacs and vanilla_. She smelled like lilacs and vanilla, and there was someone who wore that distinct mix, that perfume, someone he really should remember.

_Neal? _

_Darling, can you open those blue eyes for me? It's me, darling. It's me- do you know who I am? Can you tell who I am?_

Neal was afraid to say it, afraid of the crippling disappointment he would feel when it wasn't her…

"Mom?" he queried, his voice small.

June felt a distinctive pang in her heart. Taking a thick breath and blinking away tears, she continued caressing his face, his hair.

"Darling, it's June. It's June." And June hated herself for ever making him question who she was, for ever playing that little game.

"Right, sorry," Neal slurred, not fully with her. The voice that was usually so self-assured, so confident, was gone. In its place was a broken boy who wanted his family, who wanted love. And again, in that horrible quavering whisper, Neal struggled for control, uttering broken apologies. "Shoulda known. 's never her, sorry, I'm sorry.."

June strummed her fingers through his hair, taking in the steady rhythm of Neal's breathing, of the machines around her, startled out of her thoughts as Neal's weakened state combusted before her. He was whispering something, whispering it with a veracity that broke her heart in a way that only Neal could do.

"I don't want it to go back to what it was.." Neal's posture was all at once frigid, and there were taut lines of pain on his ashen face, a gleam of sweat on his brow that curled his hair and gave him the appearance of being an ill little boy. He was in the thralls of something, in a place that June couldn't reach him, and oh how she wanted to. Because no, she wasn't Neal's mother, but she loved that boy. Loved him like he was one of her own, had loved him a little on the very first time they met, had loved him for the magnificent heart that she got to see, the Neal Caffrey that he kept burrowed from the outside world.

June would be pressed if she were to explain it; she doubted she ever truly could. But she and Neal… much like she and Byron…. they were cut from the same stone. They danced to the music of the city, only letting their facades crumble, slip away, in the dead of night, in the silence, and in their solitary company.

So yes, Neal was her boy. And while June didn't know exactly what Neal was referring too, a good mother could always guess.

_I don't want it to go back to what it was_.

June used her handkerchief, the lovely one (it was a gift from Byron's sister) with an ornate _J.E._ stitched into it, to mop Neal's fevered brow.

Neal's posture was no longer rigid, his back no longer arched off the bed, but he was in obvious discomfort. More than anything, he seemed weak. He'd stopped moving about, his head no longer fitfully moving… though June deduced that he lacked the strength to move… and to see her Neal so weak, so depleted… it stole her breath.

"Shhh, shhh, my darling. It won't be. It won't," she cooed.

"Please… please… ask me to stay. I need to stay." His voice was gravelly and so very quiet. Hardly a whisper. Hardly a breath.

June, ordinarily so eloquent with words, found herself swallowing shards of glass to speak.

"Please ask me to stay.." Neal whispered.

_Neal, you're home. You are home, my boy. Stay. Paint, and live, and drink wine, and love, and stay in my life, because I need you to stay. You are home; you are at home, and you are home to us._

June cleared her throat and simply whispered "_Stay_."

"I wanted to… before Kate was… I was going to stay. I was always going to stay… need Peter to know that. Need him to understand, need him to want me to stay…"

"Shhh, shhh, my darling."

"Maybe that's why… I can't stay. If… If I had gone, Kate and I would be gone together." _Gone. Dead_.

Meaning _I don't deserve to stay, because my turning around, my not getting on the plane kept me from the fire… and let Kate die alone._ June's heart was pounding in her chest..

Peter took in the scene from the doorway, two hot coffees in his hand… but Peter needed some air after that. June would understand.

He turned and promptly left the room, June's eyes him following as he left.


End file.
